


Anger, Lust, & Thrust

by Cuppa_Cake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, sherlock and john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuppa_Cake/pseuds/Cuppa_Cake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John share a new experience in the bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anger, Lust, & Thrust

Poor unsuspecting John had no idea what was coming for him.

Two beers and a brandy later, John was feeling a lot less angry. Days were spent with cold shoulders and simmering anger after they had a _minor_ disagreement regarding the stupidity (or genius, according to Sherlock) of poisoning oneself in order to solve a case and damn near dying in the process. Sherlock was recovered and back to his old self again, but the argument was far from over.

Sherlock had sauntered out of the flat with his head held high, leaving John in the company of bad telly. The doctor had reduced his clothing to pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, arms loosely fitting into Sherlock’s blue dressing gown. Only God knew what Sherlock was out there doing.

Having just exited the loo John was returning to the kitchen. It sounded like there was a stampede coming from the stairwell. He had just retracted his hand from the fridge when the detective burst into the flat. 

Sherlock was a bloody mess… _literally._

His chest was heaving, his scarf nowhere in sight exposing his neck which was covered in scratches and bruises. Even his lip was bloody. John’s mouth hung open slightly and he decided to fill the void with beer. A good swallow was taken, the gulp more audible than intended because it snapped Sherlock’s attention in his direction.

There was a strange look in his eye, it was almost feral.

Any inclination to back away for his own safety was intercepted when Sherlock moved towards him with predatory intent, his hips twisting as he snaked around the corners of the flat. John’s fight or flight instinct was kicking in, and though they were fighting and he was _supposed_ to be mad, it was often hard to stay that way. Already the taller man was crowding him with his body, moving in close and even pushing him back. John’s spine hit the wooden table with a grunt, the beer splashing over his hand. 

Without a word or warning, he kissed John madly, his fingers clutching hard at his waist. John could taste the distinct flavor of blood and it didn’t mesh with hops. He _wanted_ to push Sherlock away but his limbs weren’t cooperating. Blindly he reached back to set down his beer on the table. With both hands now free those digits eased forward to cup Sherlock’s face roughly. Maybe there was just a tad bit of residual anger there.

The reciprocated aggression had Sherlock pushing harder against him, the table scraping loudly on the tile. Beakers and test tubes clinked together and a few unmarked vials fell over. The detective then broke the kiss just enough for his mouth to brush John’s, his breath so heavy he sounded on the verge of a heart attack.

John pushed forward and practically snapped his teeth at Sherlock, but was beaten to it when his own lower lip was scraped by teeth. 

“I know you’re still angry with me…” Sherlock taunted huskily, his hands quickly finding their way to the elastic band of John’s pajama bottoms. 

Heavy breaths came out in rolling waves and John made a strange noise. It was guttural and demanding. 

“ _So show it._ ” Sherlock threatened as he firmly pulled the flaccid member with all the entitlement of an owner tugging a dog’s leash.

John let out a grunt and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s own and locked onto eyes that were a luminescent green around dilated pupils. Digits crawled into those dark curls and he tugged hard, forcing Sherlock’s head back to expose the mysteriously bruised neck. And that was when lips met throat where the vibration of a moan could be felt. John exposed his teeth, leaving more than love bites on Sherlock’s neck.

The detective’s hands were flighty with desperation and released their hold on John’s manhood. Like an artist feeling out their block of clay, Sherlock’s hands walked along the edges of his flesh. John’s body stiffened when nails crawled between his shoulder blades.

“John…” There was desperation in Sherlock’s voice, his voice heavy at John’s ear. “I need you… If you’ll let me… Right now…”

That sounded more like a demand than a request. 

John stopped, panting and with eyes slightly widened. It didn’t take a genius to know what Sherlock was talking about. Sherlock was in such an animalistic mode that everything he was doing to John at this moment screamed _I want control._

Fingers loosened in Sherlock’s hair and he retreated just enough to meet those ever changing hues. A small nasal sound of disappointment came out of Sherlock. 

“You’re expecting a shag?” John’s voice had regained its coldness. “For one, we are in the kitchen, and two, I’m still quite mad at you…”

“So we’ll move out of the kitchen and you’ll get over it like you always do…”

Like a predator, Sherlock advanced, his hands on the move again as they trailed the short length of John’s back and beneath the elastic waistband again, his hands gripping firmly at John’s rear. His mouth fell hotly onto the doctor’s neck just below the ear and John let out a strained noise, the groan infused with a growl of frustration. Both hands pushed vainly at Sherlock’s chest.

“No I will not!” In order to get through to him, John stomped on Sherlock’s foot and he wiggled free. “Clear off Sherlock!” He defiantly pulled his (Sherlock’s) robe closed like an old lady who prided herself on being a prude, his chin tilted upward.

The stamping of his foot had the detective recoil and he looked at John with utter confusion. 

“Oh God, you’re serious…” Sherlock almost whimpered and his hand braced on the edge of the table that had been knocked askew and he took a deep breath. 

“John, please…” 

Sherlock was begging. John had never seen him grovel before. 

“It… _literally_ hurts. All over…” 

In other words, this was the first raging erection he’s ever had to contend with, by the looks of his trousers. 

“It’s all I can think about, my mind is…” he could even finish a proper sentence and he looked pitifully to the doctor. 

This was surprisingly satisfying. 

“Is it because I haven’t apologized?”

“No, Sherlock, it’s because you forgot to put the toilet seat down. Of course it’s because you haven’t apologized!” 

He threw his hands up and the robe came undone, exposing his own erection that he had been trying to hide. A pained sound came out of the sleuth when he spotted it and John quickly gathered the sides of the gown and wrapped himself up again. Couldn’t look angry while sporting a stiffy. 

“Well, I’m sorry, John, I probably won’t do it again…” 

Did he just say ‘probably’? 

“Now can we… please have sex. Right now. Not in the kitchen if you don’t want to, but… now.”

The apology itself didn’t seem genuine, but the desperation did. A smile slipped. Sherlock sounded so ridiculous. And then a giggle came and once again Sherlock looked confused. 

“Sherlock, do you even hear yourself?” He let go of the robe and stepped forward. “You’re a mad man…” So much for staying strong. John was laughing so hard it hurt. “Look at you. The Great Sherlock Holmes _begging._ ” He snorted. 

“John…” Sherlock whined, his fingers raking the table top. 

“You’re not very good at it you know…” 

Reaching forward, he tugged on a few curls at Sherlock’s nape, provoking a strange, anguished groan, and he closed the distance between them so that the front of their trousers touched. 

“I’m not shagging you in the kitchen…” Had to restate that just in case Sherlock forgot. But John was giving him the okay.

There was a delay, then Sherlock’s eyes popped open wide. “You really mean that? Oh you’re magnificent…” Hands grabbed each side of John’s head and Sherlock kissed him hard, breaking occasionally to throw out words like a man who had just been rescued from sea. “You’re brilliant… Wonderful… A saint… A gentleman…” Another long kiss was pulled. “And absurdly enticing…”

The compliments made John’s face flush. “Enough, Sherlock, enou—” Words were cut off by the disruptive flurry of kisses.

Another movement of bodies and he was pushing the doctor’s body into the table again. With a growl, Sherlock broke the kiss. “Right… Not the kitchen…”

John was not even given time to catch his breath and he was being dragged off by the robe. Sherlock was leading him to the bedroom via sleeve. He had just agreed to let Sherlock bed him, but John was beginning to feel nervous. Butterflies dusted the walls of his stomach with their wings and John stumbled when he found himself being shoved onto the bed. He fell face first with pillows masking his grunts. He flipped over quickly and blinked hard at Sherlock, who was quickly kicking off his shoes. The detective had the look of a crazed animal.

_Jesus Christ._

Soft brown eyes narrowed slightly. Puffing his chest out, he tried to regain the strength and bravery of a soldier.

_This was war._

Taking the initiative, John lurched forward and grabbed onto Sherlock’s face. Cupping those sharp cheekbones, John lowered them both back onto the bed. The sleuth’s slender body practically melted on top of his, already grinding into him hard. Lips hotly met Sherlock’s, his tongue teasing that lower barricade. Not only was Sherlock fully dressed, they were both now blanketed by the thick material of his wool coat.

Sherlock responded with enthusiasm, seeming to reach for John’s tonsils while his hands were already reaching to pull the pajama bottoms downward and the t-shirt upward. John felt like he was suffocating between Sherlock’s tongue and the heaviness of the detective’s coat. Sherlock wasn’t taking this slow at all. He began to claw desperately at the lapels of the trench coat, tugging mercilessly to try and alert Sherlock of his eagerness. With Sherlock’s overactive mind, it tended to be dangerous when there was only one thing on it. In this instance, it was the contents of John’s pants.

His hand dove and took hold of John’s hardened member for a firm tug, and John let out a low moan into Sherlock’s mouth. But the man’s other hand was wandering, sliding its way between the blankets and John’s lower back, his middle finger snaking its way amid the pliable flesh.

John’s eyes widened and he broke the kiss breathlessly. Sherlock’s teeth latched onto his jawline, licking and biting rabidly.

“Coat!” John rasped out in mid squirm.

He was hoping to distract Sherlock enough to remind him of one very important thing. There was no lubrication.

The detective let out an annoyed hum, his mouth never stopping as it worked its way to John’s throat. But his hands did retreat from their eager work to pull the coat from his shoulders and blindly toss it aside where it landed halfway across the foot of the bed. Now coat-free, he was once again weighing down on top of John, his hands going right back to where they were before.

John’s rear lifted off the mattress with the arch of his spine. He was balancing on the points of his elbows, that throbbing erection now jutting into the other man’s abdomen. Sherlock’s middle finger had just delved deeper, inching closer to that virgin territory. John clenched.

“Sherlock, wait a minute…” 

“What now..?!” he bellowed into John’s shoulder and made goosebumps raise.

Hips writhed against the weight of Sherlock’s body. “Lubrication. We need lubrication…”

“Don’t know where it is.”

Says the man who could solve any mystery. 

Apparently that meant continue on, because Sherlock’s hands left again to begin unbuckling his own belt, his breathing hoarse with frenzy. John’s heart was thrumming in his chest as nervousness gripped him. There was no way his first time was going to be without lubrication. It was vital! His hands shot out to press against Sherlock’s sternum and he attempted to roll away. Which was sort of hard to do with Sherlock pinning down his thighs and leaning into the pushing hands.

“This is a piss poor attempt to woo me, Sherlock!” he said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock let out another aggravated sound. In one spiteful movement, he rolled off of John and was on his feet. With one hand clutching the mess of curls atop his head, the other gripped at the painfully confining fabric of his trousers, his head moving to and fro in search of the precious lubricant. His chest heaved and his eyes were a bit wide and wild, a far cry from his usual marble statue behavior.

John eased back on his elbows and stared up at the ceiling to expel pent up air. His lungs felt looser when Sherlock wasn’t on top of him. His moment of calm was ruined by a rocking movement as Sherlock hopped up on the mattress and started walking around with a triumphant gleam in his eye. Well, it looks like he had found the lube, which was incidentally on the nightstand in plain sight. Sherlock was now towering over him and the tiny bottle was dropped between them. John just stared.

“Clothes off.” The words were practically purred at him by Sherlock, who was already beginning to peel away his own garments.

John shimmied out of his pajama bottoms and underwear, kicking them off in the struggle. They looped on his ankle. _FLING!_ The pair of tighty-whities hit Sherlock square in the chest. _Woops._

John let out a short burst of laughter. Knuckles brushed his lips in an attempt to hide his amusement, his eyes wide with innocence.

“Flinging your pants at me…” Sherlock gave a devilish smirk and let his own shirt drop from his shoulders. “I’m glad I have that effect on you.”

“Ever the humble one, Sherlock…”

John peeled off the robe with a roll of his shoulders, and the shirt was the last thing to be removed. He now sat there naked in front of Sherlock. The detective dropped onto the bed beside him and slithered out of his own trousers and underwear, a hoarse sigh releasing to finally be free from the strangling clothes.

In one fluid movement, Sherlock was upright again, both of his knees landing between John’s. The lube was plucked from the bed and he loomed over the doctor as he angrily glanced at the label.

“A ‘generous’ amount? What kinds of instructions are those?” His voice was strained with forced self-control. “Generous for whom?”

“For me!” John blurted out.

Sherlock’s dexterity was clumsy at best, but he managed to pop open the container and a dollop of the gel was squirt onto two fingers and held up for John to see.

“How much generosity do you need?”

“A lot more than that,” John breathed out nervously.

“Well, that’s not a very precise amount, is it?!” Sherlock snapped with frustration.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock…” John raised both knees, spread his legs apart, and raised his rear slightly. He was getting into position. “Try thinking about this scientifically...” Was John seriously going there? Yup. But at least it had Sherlock’s full attention. “The human body is like a machine.” John took in a deep breath and lifted his gaze toward the ceiling. “You need lubrication to keep things moving smoothly. Without it there is too much heat and the gears wear out. It needs the protection.” And John’s rear was no different. It needs protection and Sherlock was the unforgiving friction. “And I’ll be damned if I let my gears wear out from too much friction…” John muttered.

Sherlock was smirking again, more gel squirted from the tube. In spite of the feral behavior moments ago, his movements were now lethally calm as he coated each and every finger of his right hand. All the while, his hungry gaze was fixed on the doctor.

“I think I’ll have done something dreadfully wrong if your gears aren’t worn out…” His voice came out at a rumble.

This was the strangest form of dirty talk ever. John simply cleared his throat and continued to stare upward. The mattress rocked with the addition of Sherlock’s weight. Hot breath washed across his skin and John finally looked down. Sherlock was inches from his face. The detective was staring at him and waiting for something. 

A reaction? Was Sherlock studying him?

Goosebumps raced their way across his flesh. There was a tingle in his lower back and John’s legs spread apart, his cock jumped. Sherlock’s now slippery right hand pressed to the span of flesh that made up the perineum, slender fingertips cold with lube glossing their way downward until they pressed, but didn’t enter, the puckered opening.

John’s throat constricted and he let out a strange sound. It came from deep within his belly and drawled out into a hum. Was it a whimper? Gnawing on his lower lip, his hips shifted. Sherlock was teasing that tight opening. And John’s knees hit the bed.

Sherlock’s middle finger pressed just a little harder.

“Don’t clench this time.” The command was given curtly.

John was about to respond back with a _Fuck you_ when it penetrated, the slick digit easing inside slowly, until it was knuckle deep. His body’s immediate response was to bear down on the invading digit. Muscles clamped with each inch being pushed inside him. John held his breath for a mere few seconds, unable to command his lungs not to contract.

Sherlock held the finger in there, a shaking breath escaping as the voyeuristic scientist in him seemed to observe. John’s stomach rolled and his hips were locked. Cheeks puffed outward with the sudden release of air, teeth bared and fingers wadded up the bed sheets.

_Relax relax._ He mouthed the words. 

John wasn’t sure if it was the stigma of anal sex that had him tensing or the new sensation. Then, Sherlock mercilessly dragged his middle finger along each virgin wall, coaxing them to loosen up a bit. Instant relief was felt when Sherlock withdrew, but with the removal came a groan.

“Again…” John encouraged with a wavering voice, his rear lifting some off the mattress.

A second finger joined the first, pushing just a little faster than the initial entrance. John’s knuckles turned stark white and the sheets were in danger of ripping. And this time Sherlock’s fingers curled just a bit, the thumb pressing the perineum. A jolt of electricity shot down John’s spine and settled low in his back. He was clenching less and less with each persistent stroke and twist inside of him.

A shift in body weight and Sherlock was moving. His warm lips drifted across John’s left pectoral and was followed by diligent strokes of the tongue. The more those muscular walls seemed to give way, the more Sherlock’s fingers withdrew and pushed back in. Sherlock hit a sensitive spot and John gasped. It was a sharp inhale that left his lungs aching.

“Oh God yes…” he bellowed.

He felt a prickle of vibrations on his chest when Sherlock groaned in response, teeth lightly scraping the nipple. Sherlock’s tongue teased mercilessly and in response John’s hard member began to weep with precum. Pleasure overrode pain and John was no longer feeling fearful. Hips pushed upward. John was grinding back against those invading digits, putting up a soldier’s fight for control.

“More…” he selfishly commanded.

Sherlock’s free hand took hold of John’s hip, pushing him back down to restrict his movement. John let out a growl which was soon lost in his throat when the curling fingers hit the prostate. A moan escaped him and John quickly gave up the fight for control over his pleasure. His thick member rubbed against Sherlock’s abdomen, leaving a thin trail of precum.

Suddenly, he felt empty when Sherlock’s fingers withdrew. A desperate growl dripped from his tongue. Sherlock retrieved the lubricant and towered over him, and with the lack of stimulation, time seemed to stand still.

Now was the moment of truth. John caught Sherlock’s gaze and swallowed hard. Caught between a floating sensation and nervousness, John nodded. 

_He was ready._

Sherlock’s hands were visibly frantic as he applied the gel to his palm. John watched him down the length of his abdomen and his insides tightened, letting out a shaky breath. When Sherlock touched his own swollen erection, he froze with a wince. With cautious strokes, he slathered it with the lubricant. It was like watching someone defuse a bomb. One wrong move and everything would be over. The detective’s hardened member looked surprisingly inviting and John ached to feel him inside of him.

He took hold of John’s leg and lifted it, the calf placed firmly on the detective’s narrow shoulder before he did the same with the other leg. John’s stomach muscles crunched together when he was folded in half and Sherlock weighed down on him, his elongated neck stretching for their eyes to lock.

Soft brown eyes were half lidded when Sherlock’s hand dipped between their legs. John braced himself on the mattress as Sherlock prepared himself, guiding the well-lubricated and throbbing tip to the recently massaged opening. He teased at first, gingerly pressing against the puckered flesh a little. It was immense and he had only just begun to push. 

And then it happened.

Sherlock no longer hesitated and he plunged inside of him and hard. The muscles were unforgiving and tense. That tight opening stretched to try and compensate for the invading girth. It burned and John let out a slow hiss. Sherlock’s body trembled as he slowly pulled out, then lunged again and deeper. Hips writhed against Sherlock’s and John artfully kept his spine bent. Sherlock pinched his eyes shut, breaking the studious gaze.

“Fucking hell…” Sherlock’s voice came out in a startled rasp and he thrust again with more and more confidence.

Hearing such a filthy mouth caused John to shudder. A spasm hit John’s lower back. He lost his hold on the bed sheets and bent his arms back. Fingers were now gripping onto the headboard for dear life. A moan rolled out of Sherlock, his jaw becoming slack as he sucked in air. He was just beginning to find his rhythm, pushing himself deeper with each thrust. 

Waves of ecstasy rolled through John, touching every nerve and muscle in his body. He made sure to roll his hips with Sherlock’s every lunge, and it didn’t take long to match his mad pace and a mutual rhythm was soon established. Sweat dripped between their bodies and John could taste the salt on his lips. Sherlock then pried his fingers from their grip on the headboard, pinning his arms on each side of his head.

A mixture of moaning and panting filled the air, creating quite the symphony for the ears. Each cry was growing more desperate with the need for release. Breathing occasionally hitched and oxygen trapped.

Things felt slippery and Sherlock linked his fingers with John’s, crushing the life out of them. That hidden bundle of nerves was being toyed with at each deepening thrust and John found himself painfully arching his back.

“Harder…” his voice rasped.

The wish was granted in the very next plunge, flesh slamming into flesh as the entire shaft buried inside. Sherlock let out a bellowing moan. The intimate gesture of holding hands was broken for a selfish act of voyeurism. Sherlock’s hand dipped between their legs to grab hold of John’s neglected manhood, pulling it firmly and watching John’s face as he stroked it to the inevitable climax to their newfound tempo.

Sherlock was pumping him with slick digits and John couldn’t contain his moans with the undercurrent of groans from Sherlock. The combined volume of their voices fell on deaf ears as the blood rushed too quick and too hard. With the violent rocking of their bodies, the bed was beginning to knock against the wallpaper in a dull thud. Muscles were tightening, movements more frantic.

The pulsating head hit John’s prostate and sent him over the edge. The heat in his loins crawled upward into his belly. Muscles tightened and his back twitched with the building pressure.

With one hand still restrained by Sherlock’s, the ex-soldier forcefully lurched forward. Teeth latched onto Sherlock’s shoulder and John screamed into the skin. In an explosion of pleasure and ecstasy, John finally climaxed. Hot seed spurted into the palm of Sherlock’s hand, a few pearly strands slipping between digits and splashing onto that smooth abdomen. He was shaking now but refused to stop moving his hips.

Sherlock’s hand, which was now sticky and wet, latched onto John’s again as he seemed to ride through the last few drives with determination. There was a distinct taste of blood in John’s mouth. He hadn’t realized it till now that he had broken through the skin on Sherlock’s shoulder, leaving a large bite mark. John was in a fog and he tried his best to keep his hips moving.

Sherlock’s spine bowed out and locked when he pushed himself in deep, a strangled cry escaping as he too poured his seed with violent shakes throughout his body. A wetness dripped between John’s thighs and the detective came with such ferocity that it caused John’s body to spasm and his flaccid cock to jump. Sherlock’s hips moved ever so slightly to ride it out as he seemed to stop breathing. Then he was frozen, the sweat still dripping from his nose.

No one moved.

A quietness filled the bedroom and John’s legs dropped. They were heavy as if the muscles were converted to lead. The temperature was returning back to normal and Sherlock finally withdrew, _carefully_ as if he thought the thing would fall off.

Once he caught his breath, Sherlock managed some words.

“And… why couldn’t we have done that in the kitchen…?”


End file.
